


I'm not falling behind or running late

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: The Other 51 [15]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aaron 'I don't really like labels' Burr, Alexander's blood is literally 3 percent coffee, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Asexual James Madison, Awkwardness Level: Epic, Banter, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian Angelica Schuyler, M/M, Philippa is Eliza, Politics, President Hamilton, Referenced Period-Typical Homophobia, Twitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 19:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8858506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: “Pardon me, are you Aaron Burr, sir?” said a voice. Though it wasn't familiar by any measure, Aaron could have recognized the words anywhere. Only one person had ever uttered them before.

  “Hamilton?” he breathed. 
or: Eliza and John talk—as do Hamilton and Burr. It's emotional for everyone involved.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to write another verse this time, just to get a perspective on this one, but I realized that I really wanted to tell this story. It is a direct continuation of the previous part. I'm really satisfied with how the Burr parts turned out.
> 
> In other news, I have finally decided where I want to take this verse. I'd estimate either one or two parts left, although it might turn into more if I expand the backstory.

For a moment, nobody spoke as they nursed their drinks and mulled over what they had just seen. John eventually broke the silence. “Is it always like this?” he inquired bemusedly.

Washington sighed. “I would like to say no, but this is actually not uncommon,” he reflected.

“He doesn't know,” Thomas surmised succinctly.

Martha shook her head. “Neither of them do, it seems,” she said. “Had they remembered, I would like to think that one of them would have told us.”

Angelica contemplated this. “Maybe they don't know that you know,” she suggested.

Washington grimaced. “That very situation had occurred to us, so we have attempted to give them subtle clues,” he said.

“They did not react to them in any way,” Martha finished, and if her expression was a little sorrowful, well, nobody commented on it.

Thomas shrugged. “They could be fucking with your heads. I wouldn't put it past Hamilton,” he remarked offhandedly.

Washington sent an acrimonious glare in his direction. “I would appreciate it if you didn't insult my son under my roof,” he retorted.

Thomas raised his hands defensively. “Sorry,” he muttered unapologetically.

Martha ignored the Virginian. “I should think I know my son at this point. _He doesn't remember_ ,” she stressed.

“Is there any way of triggering their memories?” Eliza suggested. “After all, mine were triggered by a saucer that Alexander and I used to own, so what's to say that theirs aren't like that?”

Angelica blinked as realization hit her full-force. “Is that why Lin-Manuel Miranda was staring at you with that weird look?”

“What weird look?” Eliza tilted her head questioningly, studying her sister as though she was a curious specimen in a zoo.

“You know,” Angelica waved her hands to emphasize her point, “the one that all men get when they look at you like they know what's on your mind and want to say it but think that it is inappropriate, so they are trying to calculate the odds of you not killing them, and you can literally feel the awkwardness levels rising. _That_ look.”

Thomas shrugged dismissively. “I didn't notice.”

Angelica rolled her eyes. “That's because you are a man, Jefferson,” she snarked.

John pecked him on the lips. “And, for all your supposed genius, you are oblivious sometimes,” he added.

Angelica gestured with her hand at John. “See, even your boyfriend agrees with me.”

Actually, Abigail took up the subject, “I think I speak for everyone when I say that I'd like to know how John Laurens, abolitionist extraordinaire, ended up dating _Thomas Jefferson_ of all people.”

John and Thomas exchanged glances that spoke volumes. Thomas' seemed to convey a message of 'I am not going to tell them, but I don't mind if you do'. John reluctantly recounted the story of how the Wollstonecraft debacle turned into a date, which, in turn, eventually turned into an actual relationship. He glared at any attempt to delve deeper into the subject, and the matter was eventually dropped.

Eliza, blessed be her heart, came to their rescue. “It was awkward back there for a bit,” she changed the subject back to the original topic a little clumsily, “because I sing the part of Eliza in 'Hamilton' – you know, the musical?” she elaborated.

Abigail's eyes widened. “Are you Philippa Soo?” she asked breathlessly. “I am a big fan of yours. Your voice is truly _amazing_ ,” she gushed.

Eliza smiled, which caused her face to brighten up. “Yes, that's me. Thanks,” she replied, “it means a lot.”

After she said it, she realized that she had actually meant it. Then again, she had maintained a friendship with Abigail Adams even through their husbands' rivalry and their own opposing views; they simply made a rule never to talk politics, instead spending their afternoons complaining about their husbands' foolishness, on Eliza's part, and oscillation, on Abigail's part. Those talks, of course, were built under an unspoken agreement never to reveal anything they learned from each other to anyone else, even their husbands. It had been better that way.

Abigail grinned. “I can now see why it was ironic – what with you playing Eliza and Mr Miranda playing Hamilton while the actual Alexander Hamilton was right there next to him. Talk about awkward.”

“Don't forget how Daveed was next to Lafayette,” Eliza added, and they both began giggling, confusing the rest of the room's occupants.

“What are we going to do about this?” Washington finally voiced the question that they had all secretly been asking themselves but that nobody wanted to put into words.

“What _can_ we do?” Angelica retorted. “Do you truly want to change your life? Because I don't,” she confessed. “I have a good life. I have friends and family, and a girlfriend who cares about me, and I am satisfied with that,” to this, Eliza began to hum the melody to 'Satisfied', which resulted in another eruption of snickering from Abigail and bemused looks from everyone else. Angelica ignored her sister's antics and continued, “If you have plans to get involved, count me out.”

Washington sighed. “That's just it,” he said wearily. “I am content at how this life turned out, and yes, there are obviously certain things that I would have done differently had I remembered earlier – adopting Alexander being one of them,” he said, getting a nod of approval from Martha before continuing, “but I don't want to change the status quo.”

“Besides, even if we wanted to,” Martha took up where her husband left off, “there is no way of doing that. They don't remember, and they are hardly going to believe us. No, it's better to keep things the way they are now, unless anyone has any objections.”

No one did. Thomas did have a question, though. “Then why are we even here?” he frowned. “If you don't want to change anything, why have we decided to meet?” the rhetorical question hung in the air.

“Doesn't it feel better to know that there are people going through the same thing?” Martha shot back. “That, should you need it, there are people who understand and who can help?”

Abigail cleared her throat, catching everyone's attention. “How about we do what we came here to do: talk about our reincarnation. I am sure that we all have something we want to share, or just vent, otherwise, like Jefferson pointed out, we wouldn't be here. We can go around and everyone can say whatever it is they are comfortable with sharing.”

The motion was approved with only mild grumbling. Although awkward at the beginning, everyone eventually felt better after getting certain matters off of their chests. There were those who apologized for past actions; those who forgave; those who recounted a funny anecdote or two that helped them remember their loved ones or deal with their loss; others who simply talked about whatever it was that caught their fancy. It was a symbiotic way of healing old wounds instead of letting them fester over yet another lifetime. Although Thomas had originally had reservations, even he admitted that the outing had ended better than he expected.

Afterwards, the Washingtons offered them all guest bedrooms, arguing that they were in no state to make any sort of drive back, and, seeing as the following day was a Saturday, they could all afford to take a break.

* * *

_Donald J. Trump_ @realDonaldTrump  
Women should be ashamed of themselves for blaming men for their indecision.

 _Peggy Scott_ @margarita32  
@realDonaldTrump Men should be ashamed of themselves for blaming the women they rape for saying no. It's just disgusting.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Alexander was up before Lafayette. He was by no means a morning person, but he was even less of a sleep person, and years of teaching one's body to function on four hours of sleep at the most tended to indoctrinate certain habits – like waking up at six in the morning, despite going to sleep at one.

Since he knew that he would not be able to return to sleep – another thing he had discovered after years of experimentation – he decided that he might as well get up and be productive. He found his morning robe in his bathroom and put it on in case Washington's guests had stayed the night, which was a probability he could not disregard. He grumpily padded down to the kitchen in search of coffee, and found, to his immeasurable joy, that someone had already brewed it.

That 'someone' turned out to be his doppelgänger, who, judging by his hyperactivity and the empty mugs of coffee littering the kitchen, had been up for some time, likely suffering from the same problems – although Lin gave off the air of being a morning person even without his daily dose of caffeine.

“'Lo,” Alexander muttered, passing the actor sprawled out in an armchair in search of coffee.

Lin looked up from his phone, grinning when he identified the speaker. “Good morning, Mr President,” he said cheerfully.

Alexander waved a hand dismissively. “Call me Alexander,” he said, still searching for the elusive pot of coffee.

Lin pointed to the counter next to the fridge. “The coffee's over there.”

“You are my hero,” Alexander pouted himself a cup of coffee and took a deep sip, letting out a contented sigh. He closed his eyes, shutting out the world in favour of the hot drink in his hand.

Lin grinned mischievously. “Don't let Gilbert hear you say that,” he advised.

As if on cue, a voice said, “Don't let me hear what?” Lafayette padded slowly into the kitchen, clad in nothing but his boxers. “Ooh, coffee!” he exclaimed gleefully, hurrying to pour himself a mug before Alexander usurped it. He subconsciously mirrored Alexander's relaxed pose, raising an eyebrow in Lin's direction.

“That he will sell himself out for anyone who will supply him with copious amounts of coffee,” Lin smirked.

Lafayette glanced at Alexander, who, oblivious to their conversation, was still consuming his coffee. “I see,” he replied, trying to keep a grave face – and failing miserably. “I suppose that I have no choice but to increase my presidential coffee offerings in order to keep him firmly ensnared in my charms.”

“And how is that working out for you?” Lin teased.

“ _Voyons voir_ ,” Lafayette began, “he is still dating me, so presumably well.”

They stood there in peace, Lin scrolling through social media while Lafayette observed with continuous amazement as Alexander practically inhaled his coffee, followed by three refills. Only then did Alexander's face regain some semblance of life. “Good morning,” he said sprightly, beaming at Lafayette.

Lafayette snorted. “I should hope that it is, considering that you just drank the entire coffee pot,” he threw a pointed look at the object in question.

Alexander blinked owlishly, staring at the coffee pot as though it had betrayed him, which Lafayette privately thought was beyond adorable. He put a hand on Alexander's waist, drew him closer, and planted a gentle kiss to his forehead. He then tilted back his head, but didn't withdraw. “ _Mais ouais, mon petit lion,_ you have.”

Behind them, Lin made a show of gagging, though there was a smile in his voice when he said, “You are sickeningly cute. You are giving me diabetes.”

“Not if you are exposed to us gradually, it will not,” Alexander retorted.

“I am going to take that as a compliment,” Lafayette said simultaneously.

Alexander soon disappeared back upstairs to find his phone, while Lafayette turned on the TV and annexed the couch. Alexander returned with not only his phone but also his laptop, and flopped on the couch next to Lafayette. He absentmindedly went through his mailbox, which was littered with emails from just about every person in his administration. With practiced ease, he deleted the ones he deemed to be idiotic or irrelevant, then sorted the remaining messages into categories based on their importance. Skimming through the most urgent ones, he murmured quietly to Lafayette, “There is nothing that needs my immediate attention, but we need to return before noon. The Spanish ambassador demands a meeting this afternoon.”

“ _Demands_?” Lafayette scoffed. “He is making it sound like he is seeking an audience with a king.”

“Honey, you should see me in a crown,” Alexander drawled, which caused Lin to stifle a snicker.

Lafayette raised an eyebrow. “ _Sherlock_? Seriously?”

“Also, Trump is being a misogynist clown again,” Alexander added, switching to his phone to check his Twitter updates.

Lin groaned. “When is he not?” he asked rhetorically

They worked in silence. At one point, Daveed entered the room, squinting against the light tricking in through the windows. “How are you even awake?” he whispered furiously, all but collapsing on a chair and putting his face in his hands.

Lafayette shrugged nonchalantly. “Years of practice in trying to outdrink Schmidt,” he said by way of explanation. “James and Allison are both lightweights, but that guy has the stamina of four people.”

Lin watched the scene, then stood up and stretched. “Well, since it does not seem like any of you are going to make breakfast, I'll have to.”

Lafayette rolled his eyes. “You wouldn't want Alexander anywhere near a kitchen anyway.”

“Says the person who once actually burned tea,” Alexander retorted.

Lin made quick work of breakfast, settling on pancakes. Soon, the other occupants made their way to the kitchen, tempted by the smell. Alexander continued to type some sort of speech into his phone, occasionally switching to Twitter to, in all likelihood, wage his virtual war against Trump's bigotry.

John took in the scene, then, trying to make it seem like there wasn't anything to feel awkward about, politely asked if he could have a pancake, to which Lin replied sarcastically that no, he was prohibited from eating them–-yes, _of course_ he could have a pancake.

Lafayette grabbed two plates and made his way to the table, practically dragging Alexander with him. Still writing, Alexander plopped down in front of his plate. Lafayette sat down next to him and began to eat, then noticed that Alexander still has not touched his food. “Alexander, eat your breakfast,” he said firmly, internally sighing. Alexander was a delightful person, but dating him sometimes felt like babysitting a five-year-old.

“Give me a minute,” Alexander said dismissively because who needed food. It was so… plebeian.

On the other side of the table, Eliza snickered at the president's antics. It was so typically _Alexander_.

Meanwhile, Lafayette exchanged an exasperated look with Washington. He then reached over and snatched Alexander's phone from his fingers, ignoring Alexander's shout of outrage. He locked it and hid it in his pocket. “You'll get it back when you finish your food.”

“Fine,” Alexander huffed petulantly. “Just don't try to break into my phone.”

Lafayette smirked. “Please, _mon amour,_ you have used the same passcode since college. How do you think James manages to perpetually prank you?” he grinned at Alexander's furious expression. “Food, then phone.”

Having an incentive to eat, Alexander quickly finished his breakfast, then held out a hand pointedly. Lafayette scowled but gave him back his phone. Alexander returned to work with glee.

The others exchanged amused looks. Eliza wistfully reminisced how Hamilton used to work just as much in his past life. It was a pity neither Alexander nor Lafayette remembered.

Alexander and Lafayette had to leave soon afterwards if they wanted to be back in D.C. by noon, though not before wheedling a promise out of the Washingtons that they would visit sometime next week. Lin and Daveed also used this as an excuse to leave, citing that they had a previous engagement that they could not back out of.

“See you guys on Monday,” Eliza forced a wide smile, then dropped it as soon as the two actors left. She closed the door and leaned against it. “I hate lying to them,” she said to Angelica.

Her sister shrugged. “You aren't technically lying to them, you know,” she pointed out.

Eliza grimaced. “Yes, but it feels like it.”

Angelica smiled sympathetically, then grabbed Eliza's arm and led her back into the living room. “Tell me about it,” she muttered.

* * *

Eliza intercepted John right after breakfast. “John, I need to talk to you,” she said grimly.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” John responded quietly, as not to draw any attention to them.

They withdrew into an empty kitchenette on the second floor – and really, Eliza frowned, how many kitchens did the Washingtons even need? This house was one hell of a maze.

“So,” Eliza said, sitting down, “you were John Laurens.”

“And you were Eliza Hamilton,“ John replied in the same fashion, though he looked uncomfortable, fidgeting.

She observed him for a moment, then offered her hand. “Pleasure to meet you. It's past time, really.”

At that, John laughed. “You are correct, Mrs Hamilton.”

“Eliza, please, John. Or Miss Soo, if you insist on formality.”

“Eliza,” John repeated. He was silent for a moment. “It is weird, talking to you like this.”

“Why?” Eliza asked. “Because we both slept with the same man in our past life?”

“Yes,” John smiled a little bitterly.

“I have to say, it felt a little weird seeing Alexander like that,” Eliza said.

“Being so close yet so far away,” John supplied, knowing the feeling exactly. He had felt it once before, after all.

“Knowing that he isn't mine,” Eliza continued.

“What do you _think_ I went through when he married you?” John asked rhetorically. He did not intend to be cruel, but Eliza still flinched. He raised his hands defensively. “I'm sorry,” he apologized softly. “That was uncalled for.”

“Perhaps,” Eliza admitted, “but it was the truth,” she was silent for a moment. “You loved him, didn't you?” she finally mustered the courage to ask.

John did not meet her eyes. “Yes,” he murmured quietly, as though he was confessing to a grave sin. Eliza supposed that he was, at least according to the archaic laws of the 18th century. For all his supposed confidence, John seemed to revert to his former self, a soldier living in constant fear that his inclinations might be discovered by someone.

“I don't mind,” Eliza reassured him. She frowned as a thought occurred to her. “Did you resent me for marrying Alexander when you could not?”

John hesitated, which told Eliza more than words ever could. “No– yes– sometimes,” he finally settled. “I knew that I would dislike any woman that Alexander would eventually, for no other reason than that she would take away a man whom I loved more than life itself. But you–“ he said, forcing his eyes to look into hers, “you were different. You were kind and self-sacrificing and understanding and _perfect_ for him in every way, and it both simplified and complicated my feelings on the situation, because on one hand, I could not bear to detest you, such a pure person, for loving Alexander when I knew all too well how intoxicating he was; on the other hand, the mere fact that I could not muster any negative feelings towards you made me hate the situation and your person more. Then I just hated myself for feeling those things.”

“John–“ Eliza started, moving her hand to cover his, but he jerked away at the touch. “Sorry,” she said.

“Don't apologize, Eliza,” he said. “It isn't your fault that I was messed up. _Am_ messed up,” he corrected himself.

Eliza frowned, her eyes filling with righteous fury. “It's not your fault that you were not allowed to be openly with the person you loved,” she objected. “If anything, it was the fault of society and its heteronormative views.”

“Not only,” John objected.

“Yes, only,” Eliza insisted. “If Alexander had a choice between you and me, he would have chosen you without a doubt,” she added.

“I am not so sure about it,” John muttered quietly, but Eliza heard it all the same.

“I am,” she said in a confident voice. “You weren't there when he got the letter from your father informing him of your death, you didn't see the state he was in. John–“ her voice cracked, “he locked himself up in his office for _days_. He didn't write, didn't _talk_ , refused to come out for any reason. I once heard sobs coming from there. When his body finally stopped functioning and he fell asleep, he finally gave in to exhaustion, I found him sprawled on the floor, clutching at your letters to him. Trust me, _he would have chosen you_ ,” she finished, blinking away the tears she could feel forming in her eyes.

John frowned. “Would you have been okay with that?”

Eliza bit her lip. “I wouldn't have been happy,” she responded at length, “but I would have sacrificed almost anything in the world to make Alexander happy, and my own happiness would have been a small price to pay.”

* * *

Aaron Bartow was, though not a normal man by society's standards, quite unassuming at first glance. At average height, wearing a custom-tailored suit that ideally matched his dark skin, he gave off the impression of a typical businessman or perhaps a sought-after lawyer. He was what one might label a child prodigy, excelling in school at a young age despite the loss of his parents at a young age, being the top student in all his classes, essentially breezing through college and law school, landing himself a job at one of the most successful law firms on the Eastern coast. That was uncommon, yes, but not anything remarkable. Anyone could achieve what he did – that was the point, after all. He was anyone, and anyone could be him. He was not unique. Valuable, yes, but never irreplaceable.

He was definitely no reincarnate. He _wasn't_.

_Guns blazing, blood spraying, dirt flying–_

Nobody questioned it. He denied having a past life, and people accepted that at face value – it wasn't like many people believed, truly _believed_ , in reincarnation anyway.

_aiming a pistol at his one-time friend, his greatest enemy except he wasn't his enemy, not then, not ever, it was all a misunderstanding–_

He made sure to distinguish himself sufficiently to advance but also to never stand out too much. It was better this way, he told himself.

_instead of aiming at him like he was bloody supposed to, Hamilton aimed at the sky WAIT–_

He was not some person from a distant past. He wasn't responsible for their mistakes.

_He might have survived the duel, but he payed for his shortsightedness._

'I am inimitable, I am an original,' he would think, and sometimes, just sometimes, he almost convinced himself.

_Aaron Burr was forever remembered as the man who killed Alexander Hamilton._

He wasn't a reincarnate because he refused to accept that he would shoot someone so dear to his heart.

_That was his legacy now._

He refused to be that person again, someone who stood for nothing, someone who fell for anything, and Hamilton was right about that, that Caribbean bastard, but, Aaron thought with a snort, look where it got him.

A glance at the laptop screen, featuring the most recent Buzzfeed article about America's favourite couple at some event or other (Aaron honestly did not care enough to delve into the subject), had him revising the thought. It got him elected president.

For as long as he had remembered, he has had two sets of memories: the memories continuously created in his present life, and the other set of memories, the one where he fought a war, loved, killed, studied, worked, been betrayed and betrayed in return, and then lost it all, all because he, in a fit of frenzy, decided that his former fellow upstart lawyer had it out for him. He could now see that it could not be further from the truth.

 _The world was wide enough for Hamilton and me; I just didn't didn't see it,_ he winced. _One's success does not necessarily portend another's failure._

Hamilton didn't seem to remember. Aaron couldn't know for sure, but Hamilton has never been able to shut up, and if he could flaunt the fact that he was the very person who got America's economy up and running, he undoubtedly would do it. Alexander Hamilton was many things, but subtle he was not.

Aaron worked harder than ever before. He was set to prove, even if only to himself, that Aaron Bartow was better than Aaron Burr could ever strive to be. Aaron did not repeat old mistakes: instead of going into politics again, resolved to stick solely to law. He knew that if he started the quest for power again, he wouldn't stop until he had reached the top, at the expense of people who stood in the way. At the expense of his morals and convictions.

 _Is there anything you wouldn't do? Hamilton asked, and Aaron grinned because he finally realized how wonderful it must have felt for Hamilton to chase after what he wanted, consequences be damned. It was_ freeing _.  
_

There used to be a time when Aaron would trust his self-control, but those days were long past. He didn't trust himself not to do something regrettable, so he kept a safe distance.

His luck being as rotten as always, just as he thought that he had figured out how to balance himself adequately, Alexander Hamilton waltzed right back into his life, bringing with him all the chaos that it entailed, throwing his world off its axis once again.

* * *

_New York Post_ @nypost  
SHOOTING AT CENTRAL PARK – TWELVE DEAD nyp.st/7fTk4D

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
Our hearts go out to the families and friends of the victims of the Central Park shooting.

 _Donald J. Trump_ @realDonaldTrump  
This is what we get for letting radical islamists into our country. Tragic!

* * *

Aaron sighed. He shuffled some papers on a case that was coming up. He had prepared his client's defense, made sure that it was airtight, and then re-checked twice. It was as perfect as it could become.

All his other cases were being handled by his subordinates. Taking over a case would only cause trouble for both the lawyer and the client, since he would not be aware of the subtle nuances of the case. It was always better to let one lawyer work a case from start until finish.

Aaron could not believe that he would ever think this, but he longed for some distraction that would rescue him from this mind-numbing boredom. He even missed Hamilton's never-ceasing chatter, something he would never have thought possible.

Of course, just as he thought that, his phone rang. He checked it. Unidentified number. Huh. He became wary, but, taking a leaf out of Hamilton's book, he decided to pick it up anyway. “This is Jugger and Bartow law firm, how may we help you?” he said politely.

The person on the other end did not speak at first. Aaron repeated himself. “This is Aaron Bartow, defense attorney. How may I be of service?”

“Pardon me, are you Aaron Burr, sir?” said a voice. Though it wasn't familiar by any measure, Aaron could have recognized the words anywhere. Only one person had ever uttered them before.

“Hamilton?” he breathed, unable to believe that it was happening. “How are you– How do you–“

“Remember?” Hamilton finished, an amused tone to his voice. “I have never _not_ remembered, Burr. I have always been both Alexander Hampton and Alexander Hamilton, I have always had both sets of memories.”

 _"I have always had both sets of memories."_ Just like Aaron. He realized the irony, and nearly laughed. It would seem that their fates were interwoven even beyond death.

He swallowed. “I'm sorry, Hamilton. I didn't mean to shoot– I never meant to shoot, it's just that it felt like it was all your fault except it wasn't and I realized that as soon as I had fired my gun and God it was the biggest mistake of my life–“ objectively, he knew that he was rambling, but he couldn't prevent himself form talking now that he started. Everything wanted to spill out. Maybe there was something to the healing powers of confession after all.

“Burr,” Hamilton's voice was strong and firm.

Somehow, Aaron's mouth listened to the implied command and stopped talking. He steeled himself for condemnation, for the verbal assault he knew Hamilton had been preparing ever since he was reborn.

Instead, Hamilton's words shocked him. “I forgave you the moment you shot,” Hamilton's voice was curiously soothing, as though he was a wounded animal that Hamilton needed to appease.

He should have been affronted. He wasn't.

“Then why–“

“Let me finish, Burr,” Hamilton once again sounded mirthful. “I forgave you the moment you shot,” he repeated, like it needed to sink in. “You were my first friend I made here when I arrived in America. A lot of the time, it felt like you were the only constant in my life, even during the times we were estranged. You were the ying to my yang, the silence to my loquaciousness, the stillness to my movement, the–“

“Yes, Hamilton, I get it,” Aaron cut him off.

“Shut up, I'm trying to rekindle our friendship here,” Aaron could have sworn he heard Hamilton roll his eyes. “As I was saying, you were the one constant in my life, and _I forgive you_. That's not to say that I don't want to punch you because I do, because bullet wounds _hurt like hell_ ,” Aaron winced at that, but Hamilton ploughed on, “but that's not why I called you.”

“Why did you call me?” Aaron could not help but wonder.

Hamilton was quiet for a moment. “You know how I'm the president,” he finally said, something indeterminable in his voice.

Aaron snorted. “It would be hard to miss.”

Hamilton also laughed, but soon fell silent. It was odd. Aaron tensed up, because a quiet Hamilton was never a good sigh. “Well,” Hamilton hesitated, “do you know– have you heard about– okay, this isn't working,” he let out a breath. “I'm just going to be candid and hope that it works. Would you like to be my Attorney General?” he said quickly.

Aaron blinked. He certainly wasn't expecting that. “You want me to be your _what_?” he asked to make sure that he hadn't misheard.

Hamilton scoffed. “You heard me,” he said, but obligingly repeated, “do you want to be my Attorney General?”

“Why me?” Aaron asked.

“Why not?” Hamilton shot back. “I _know_ you. I trust you – yes, I trust you, despite you literally killing me. You are a brilliant lawyer. You would be a perfect fit,” Hamilton clarified, getting more excited with every word he spoke.

Aaron hesitated. “Did you consult with your VP?” he asked.

Hamilton groaned. “Burr, in case you have not noticed, I don't actually have to justify my choices to James Madison,” he said slowly, as though trying to explain something to a child.

Aaron slumped. “So Madison remembers.”

Hamilton hummed. “So does Laf,” he confirmed.

“Lafayette?” Aaron started. “As in–“

“Gilbert du Motier, the marquis de Lafayette, my Secretary of State, my boyfriend, and our fellow revolutionary in his past life?” Hamilton supplied. “Yep, that's him.”

“He will kill me,” Aaron said glumly.

“Don't be so pessimistic, Burr,” Hamilton responded cheerfully. “Laf won't kill you. Wound you a little, yes – and a warning, so might Jemmy–“

“ _Jemmy_?” Aaron reiterated in disbelief.

Hamilton sighed. “Yes, Jemmy. We set aside our differences. As I was saying, they might be a little pissed off, but they won't hurt you. Much. I won't let them.”

“Jeez, thank you, Hamilton,” Aaron retorted sarcastically. “You certainly know how to comfort a person. What happened to the previous Attorney General, anyway?” he asked in an attempt to stall for time.

Hamilton saw right through that. One of the drawbacks of working closely with a person for a long time, Aaron supposed. “He was one of the casualties of the shooting in Central Park,” he said succinctly. “Do you want to be Attorney General or not? Because I have a meeting in, uh,” he paused for a second, “roughly three minutes.”

Aaron Bartow sighed. “Fine. I'll be your Attorney General. Give me a few days to get my affairs in order.”

“Sure,” Hamilton said. “And Burr? If you want to come into the West Wing, the code word is 'Rochambeau'.”

Aaron groaned. “You are enjoying this, aren't you?”

Hamilton laughed. “I have to find joy in the small details,” he admitted, “because the big picture isn't really as utopian as I had imagined. But more on that later, when you get your security clearance. Our cabinet meetings are at nine in the morning, by the way. Do show up, and don't be late.”

“You were the one always running late,” Aaron reminded him. “I was never late.”

Hamilton's laugh was the last thing he heard before the call disconnected.

_I'm not falling behind or running late._

Aaron Burr, or Aaron Bartow, finally had a chance to repent for his past mistakes, and he would be damned if he lost the chance because he waited too long.

The time for waiting was past. Now was the time to _act_.

**Author's Note:**

> Eliza and John are both so self-deprecating. My heart hurts. Also, I'm not actually taking any sides on the Eliza vs John debate. I am a firm believer that Hamilton loved them both equally.
> 
> I'm using some lyrics as actual quotes. I'm mixing like 40% actual history with 60% musical version.


End file.
